Their Vices
by Revolution18
Summary: "You're not a man who shares war stories for fun, Thomas Shelby. And I'm not a woman who goes on dates with gangsters for a cheap thrill." Tommy/OC Rosie never thought she'd do business with the likes of Mr. Shelby-that is, until she gets a proposition she can't refuse.
1. Vices

Smoke from Shelby's mouth filled the dark, gray office, puff after puff. He seemed to go nonstop, cigarette after cigar after cigarette. All day. More and more smoke, like a steam engine alerting the sky of its presence.

Rosie didn't care about that. What she cared was that he was ignoring her.

"Thomas Shelby," she said, eyeing him from across the room. How long would he go before looking up?

He was wearing a sporting vest, no tie. He looked ready for a Sunday afternoon of golf or croquette. Did the Shelbys care for that sort of thing? Who knew. They were an unpredictable lot. Who could have predicted they'd control most of Birmingham? Certainly not most.

"Miss Rosie Walls. Thank you for comin'," he finally replied as he briskly stood from his desk and rubbed the stub of his cigarette in the ash tray. He marched over in three steps, shook her hand politely—almost gentlemanly—and offered a cigarette from his metal container. She took one and sat in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

"I imagine you're here about my real estate in Heath. Or is it my automobiles?" She cocked her head to the side as he lit her cigarette. She took a quick drag and leaned back casually. Shelbys were sharks. She would not give him a chance to smell weakness.

He gave her a look before sitting on the chair across from her, lighting his own cigarette.

"Actually," he said after a long drag, "it's neither." He wasn't making eye contact.

"Oh?" She said, eyebrow raised. He was an intimidating man; everything from the cut of his hair to his slack posture oozed authority, command. But I am no little flower, ready to wilt under pressure, she reminded herself.

"I need a personal favor," he said, suddenly turning to look at her.

"The Great and Indomitable Thomas Shelby needs a favor from me," Rosie laughed, a bit more sarcastically than she meant. In truth, she was nervous. Nervous about what he was going to ask and even more nervous that he could tell she was out of her element.

"I know about the ammunition," he said casually. "I know you smuggle them in your lingerie business." He took another huff on his cigarette. "And yes, I know about your lingerie line as well."

Rosie blinked. "My lingerie line is hardly a secret," she scoffed and took another drag. "How do you think I'd sell unmentionables without bored mistresses knowing about it?"

"You keep your name unattached."

"Well, yes, but half of Birmingham knows by now. I imagine if you do, then the other half must have caught on as well," Rosie sighed. It shouldn't be a surprise that he knew—it wasn't that hard to figure out she owned the new designer shops popping up in Birmingham. Keeping a degree of separation was simply…a half step of privacy, a little convenience meant to keep undesirable reputations cornered off. But the city knowing where high-end prostitutes and lonely housewives were getting their new brassieres wasn't a devastation. She would only need to readjust.

Thomas looked at her with a bland expression, probably reading every emotion on her face. She wasn't a great liar. And an even worse poker player.

"So about the guns—"

"Now how do you know about that?" She said, suddenly adjusting. She decided there was no use hiding it, or in stalling that detail off any further.

"We've got a man tendin' to your books. Noticed a few weight changes in shipments after they'd already been packed. Combine that with some insider info about your new connections with the Roys, it wasn't that damn hard to figure out." Thomas put out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Alright. You've discovered my brother's ill-advised secret. So what then? Wanting a slice of the cut as part of some ransom?" Rosie accused, furrowing her brow. He held out the ashtray and she put out her cigarette.

"No," he said, with a sudden chuckle. She frowned. "No, I don't want your money. What I want is to put your smuggling skills to better use." He stood, pacing the floor. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but he was obviously fit. His dress shirt's sleeves were taut around his arms as he put his hands in his pocket. Rosie shifted suddenly, acutely aware of his figure.

Thomas stopped pacing and leaned against his desk, his hands still in his pockets. How is he able to look both so casual and so stern? She thought.

"I'm expanding. Boston," he said, looking intently at her. She refused to break eye contact. His eyes were icey blue, an invitation, a dare. "You already have experience smuggling ammunition. Can't imagine it would be too hard to add alcohol and narcotics to it."

She stayed quiet for a half beat, then asked, "America?"

"Prohibition. The market is prime, it's expanded. Now is the time for Shelby Company Limited to make its move. We've got ports and men set up in Boston. All I need is your approval and we get it done ourselves. You'll get thirty five of the cut."

"Thirty five? My, my, how generous," Rosie said sarcastically, her mind pacing. She hadn't been particularly enthused about her brother's smuggling operation—he wasn't a careful man. And if the Peaky fucking Blinders could sniff it out so quick, she wondered who else was on her tails. But she knew the Blinders's reputation. Moving alcohol would be child's play for them. And if they could ensure the ammunition was also handled discreetly…

As if reading her mind, he added, "And we'll handle your ammunition ourselves. No charge. Your brother's men aren't fit for this business, Miss Walls. Mine can get it done," he said, gesturing with his cigarette in hand, "and make sure no fuck-up on any side happens."

"Thirty five. And you're movin' it in my name?" Rosie gave a unamused laugh. "A little shipment from 'ere to London is nothing. But to America? This whole operation gets cracked and I'm the one takin' the fall."

"Aye. And yet you'll be making more than enough to feel rightly protected in the event of any potential fuck-up. And I assure you, that won't happen."

"Protected? The money you're offering isn't enough to forgo fear of the law," Rosie retorted. She looked him up and down. "You comin' to me means I'm either your best option or your last. Either way, you don't want to lose me," She jutted her chin up in a show of defiance. "I want fifty, flat and fair."

He looked at her and pursed his lips. "Forty."

"Fifty." She would not relent.

Shelby raised his eyebrows in a mix of…surprise? Amusement? She couldn't tell. After a moment, he sighed.

"Alright," he said, putting his hands up in a show of concession. "Fifty, then."

She stood and grasped his hand lightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby. A pleasure, really." Rosie smiled and tipped her hat slightly.

As she turned to leave, Thomas added suddenly, "And a dance."

Rosie turned back to face him, suddenly thrown off whatever seat of confidence she had. His mouth was a hard line, but his blue eyes somehow captured a mix of emotions, like he was being torn in different directions. She looked at him, not even trying to hide her surprise.

"Are you certain you're in a place to demand things, Mr. Shelby?" she asked.

"I'm giving you fifty."

"Is this part of the deal?"

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes carving into her. "No. It's an offer."

Rosie realized she was holding herself awkwardly and fixed her posture, holding her head high. "Alright. A dance."

He looked down, nodded stiffly and marched to the door to walk her out. She quickly regained control of her feet and walked out, gracefully as she manage, into the Shelby offices. The entire ride home, Rosie could only think of how differently she'd expected this meeting to go.

The Peaky Blinders were known for owning many pubs, clubs, even whorehouses (though the latter were generally owned only by money, not by name—so the rumors went). By dancing, Rosie couldn't be quite sure where or when he meant. Would they be going to his pubs for a dance? Somehow Rosie didn't find the idea as ridiculous as she might've hoped.

Part of her was beside herself for saying yes without thinking. It had slipped from her mouth like a fool. She should have said no, declined his offer, put him in his place. She had a business to keep, a dignity to maintain. She can't be romancing clients—no matter how discreet their partnership may be.

More than that, she knew Thomas Shelby's reputation. A hard man, decorated with medals from the war. And probably broken by it too—Lord knows most the boys sent off were, her older brother included. His list of sins was, by rumor, longer than most's, but none could say he wasn't a keen businessman. He'd brought up the Shelby family from nothing to something. Rosie had to admire that. She admired anything with ambitions that could rival her own.

The other part of her, the part which fought her business sense and existed deep inside, was still intrigued. No, not intrigued—hopeful. Or anxious. She couldn't tell. She wanted to pretend that side didn't exist.

By the third day, Rosie grew both simultaneously more anxious, and less convinced that Shelby was serious. She was scribbling into the company's ledger when the phone finally rang.

"Miss Rosaline, there's a call for you," her housemaid Martha said, handing her the phone.

"Thank you, Martha," she smiled and waved her away.

"Shelby Residence at 8 o'clock tonight. You know where I live, yes?" Shelby's gravelly voice asked.

"Yes. 6 Watery Lane?"

"That's the one,"

"Alright. I'll see you, then."

The line clicked.

Rosie arrived at the residence on Watery Lane, clad in a gold and black dress, her dark curls pinned up by a brooch. As she was about to knock, it was opened suddenly by a boy with the Thomas Shelby's same haircut and same cheekbones.

"Rosie Walls?" He asked, giving her a quick up-and-down appraisal.

She gave a nod, and the flash of a quick smile.

"Right, come on in then," he said, opening the door to usher her in. She quietly stepped inside. The interior of the Shelby home was ill-lit, its wallpaper yellowed and peeling. But it felt lived-in—even cosy. She had grown up in a home not unlike this one.

"TOMMY," the boy cried. "She's here!"

With a sniff, the boy turned back to her and said, "He'll be down in just a moment. I'm Finn."

Rosie politely offered her hand and he gave a gentle shake. "Pleasure," she replied.

A moment later, loud footsteps came clapping down the staircase and Thomas Shelby walked in, as grand and confident as a king, shrugging on his coat jacket. He looked smooth, like he was cut from glass.

As he did so, his eyes gave her a look that made her face heat. Since when have I blushed like this? She thought rapidly. Like a foolish schoolgirl.

More footsteps came clattering and two more men with similar haircuts rushed down. They stumbled in clumsily, stopping abruptly next to Thomas.

"Right. This is Arthur, John," Thomas said, pointing at the two men. "That one's Finn," he said.

"We a'ready met," the boy said.

"Nice to meet you all," Rosie said politely. The two older brothers took her hand and kissed it quickly, with an air of performance.

"May I say, Miss Walls, it is a pleasure—," The older brother—Arthur—said as he took her hand.

"Let's go," Thomas cut off, either impatient or annoyed. He turned to her and offered his arm, his icey blue eyes giving the only color to his face.

She nodded, wrapped her arm on his, and said a quickly goodbye to the men.

As they stepped out the door, she heard one of the men clap another on the back and say, not so quietly, "Fookin' ell, what a —,"

He was quickly shushed. Rosie hoped whatever he was about to say was a compliment.

They rode in Mr. Shelby's car, one far nicer than any gangster had a right to. The conversation was mostly quiet, until she asked, "Where are we heading?"

"A pub."

"A pub?"

"You'll see," the man said, then remained quiet.

After several minutes, she tilted her head to look over at him. Mr. Shelby had one hand on the wheel, the other casually bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He looked so nonchalant; a younger man could not pull off half of his disposition without seeming cavalier. He glanced over and sniffed.

"You look well-dressed," he remarked, his voice low and grainy.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Most of the women in this neighborhood couldn't afford one of your earrings." He inhaled his cigarette deeply. It sounded more like an observation than a judgement.

"Most of the women in this neighborhood have no jobs. No income except from their man," she replied.

"Aye," he agreed, inhaling. "Even so, not many men on this side of Birm could afford you a dress like that."

"Except for you, that is?" It was more of a statement than a question.

He didn't reply.

"Do you work with women often, Mr. Shelby?" She asked, turning to him.

He exhaled and said, "No, not often."

"Do you find it different than working with a man?"

Shelby turned his head and looked at her—with that same look from earlier that she couldn't place. Finally, he said, "Depends on the woman."

After a few more minutes, they arrived in front of the entrance to a pub. Shelby parked the car, stepped out and marched over to her door to open it. Rosie thanked him and stepped out into the crisp, fall air. She could see shadows of people inside through the stained glass while soft swing music came drifting to her ears.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand. Two men in long coats standing outside opened the doors for them and nodded to Thomas, knowing immediately who he was.

Inside, music poured out everywhere. The pub was decorated in red and gold drapes and carved mahogany wood. It smelled like alcohol and sweat and smoke. The room was stuffed with dozens of tables and chairs, all filled with chatting patrons and covered with cards and glasses. A large bar in the back was overflowing with drinks and men hustling to grab them; the bartenders' arms were moving so fast, they could have been conducting a symphony. In the middle, a big band played next to the wood dance-floor, calling for everyone to join in.

Everywhere, people were dancing, drinking, laughing. In the midst of all the noise, she let go of Thomas's hand. They passed through young men primping their hair, young women screeching in laughter, fat men huffing their cigars while sipping their whiskey. It was loud, almost too loud for her to hear Thomas beckoning her to follow him. She grabbed his hand again and pushed through throngs of people.

Nothing could hush this crowd, but Shelby's presence made a fair effort. A few gentlemen stopped to nod to Mr. Shelby, who gave little in response. One man—a Blinder—tipped his hat, showing a glint of the razor underneath. Some women gave smiles to her companion, while others turned instead to look at her. Rosie suddenly felt all the eyes on her. Even in all the chaos, people were sizing her up. That was something she had become accustomed to; she head her chin up and smiled back.

The two made their way down a hallway off in the back, closed off to the main hall. A host directed them inside a small, dim room with a small table, already laid with china and bottles of wine and Irish whiskey. The server closed the doors, suddenly muting the cacophony of the pub.

Thomas took off his coat before offering to take hers. The two sat down and lit cigarettes. Rosie relaxed in her chair, letting her posture suffer a little. It seemed to her that there was little need for formality with a man like Thomas Shelby.

"What is this pub called?"

"The Gilded Horseman."

"And you own it?"

"I own half the clubs in Birmingham," he said, taking a quick drink of whiskey.

Rosie smirked. "You own just about everythin' in Birm, don't you?" Thomas reached to pour her a glass of wine, but she stopped him. Instead, she reached for the whiskey.

He gave her an amused look and took a drag on his cigarette. "Everything but lingerie, I'd say," he joked dryly.

Rosie smiled and poured herself a glass. "I suppose you could say our little arrangement now means you have a hand in my company, however discreet it may be," Rosie said as she inhaled her cigarette. "So I think you might include that." She exhaled. "Tell me, have you ever actually seen my company's work? Surely you have. Women all over are digging up their husband's coffers for it." She was bragging. Humility didn't suit the night.

"Can't say I have," he said, following another swig of whiskey.

"I doubt that, somehow. Would you even know how to tell it's mine?" She laughed, taking a sip. The whiskey burned in the best of ways as it went down.

"If your lingerie is as popular as you say it is, I wager all the women in this club are wearing it right now," Thomas said, gesturing to the room outside.

"Oh, I know it. And they'd show you if you asked," Rosie laughed. Thomas smiled and puffed on his cigarette.

They were quiet for a moment, sipping and inhaling their vices. She took this chance to study his face. He was handsome, to be sure, but she'd never met a man who could look both so handsome and so severe. His face looked gaunt, but sharp, like he had been carved from unyielding stone. His eyes were his best feature, to be sure. But nothing about him was unpleasant to look at. She could see thin lines of formers scars still left on the corners of his brows, on the crests of his cheekbones.

She poured another glass of whiskey.

"I thought we would be dancing?" Rosie questioned him.

"I intend to have dinner with you first," he said, gesturing to the table.

"Ah, a real gentleman?" She teased. They continued chatting until a waiter entered with two plates of salads and bread.

As they began eating, Rosie asked, "What are your brothers like?"

"You've met them. Half-soaked," he replied. "But they're kin. I imagine you can relate."

Rosie smiled and nodded. "That I can. Any sisters?"

"One."

"And what's she like?"

"She's,"—he exhaled deeply, smoke pouring out of his mouth. He looked at her, lazily, sleepily—"she's smarter than any of us." The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Do you have any?"

"No," she said, sipping on a cigarette. She closed her eyes, thinking. "But my brother did have a wife once."

"Once?"

"She put a pistol in her mouth during the war." Rosie opened her eyes and stared back at him, her face like stone. "Not all casualties were in the trenches, I suppose."

They'd both finished eating. The waiter re-entered and replaced their plates with a serving of potato and pig sausage. They didn't move to touch their food.

"I knew a man, once, in France. He had eyes like yours—brown. Had little green flecks in them, just like yours," he said, putting out his cigarette and leaning back into his seat.

"His name was Patrick. One day, we were walking. This was before, a few weeks before I was assigned in minin' and diggin'. We'd spent the first two weeks in trenches, wading in mud. An—and you didn't do much walking. In the war. Walkin' was how you'd get your skull blown into pieces by a sniper," he gestured to his head, whiskey in hand. "But our knees…they were so used to standin', our knees felt like they'd been nailed straight." His hand imitated a hammer, pounding at his knee. "And they were pushin' us ahead, makin' us get to another waypoint. So we were walkin', the land was clear, no trees or buildings in sight. Rollin' hills, not a cloud in the sky. The reports said it was clear. So we walked."

His arm swept out, imitating the open plain. Thomas's face was smooth, free of expression, but his eyes were glazed over. He wasn't looking at her but at the space behind her, as if he was back in that field.

"And Patrick—he'd ran ahead. See, Patrick was the best runner back home, he'd tell us. It was stupid to run, it was stupid to do almost anythin'. But at that moment, he was like a dog. Like a fookin' dog that had to run, had to chase somethin'. He was fifty, maybe sixty meters in front of the rest of us. Just a dog, runnin' free.

"And I can see him there," he said, his voice swelled with anger, his finger pointing to a spot in the distance. "I can see him there, ahead of us. One second he was there. I was smilin', we all were. And the next—," Thomas's hands went up. "He was probably still alive, right. Layin' there, fookin' mangled. But the sound of the land mine and the smoke, we knew what it meant. It would draw attention from miles 'round. And we had to run. We ran. Away from where the mine'd been. We left 'im there," he said, his voice low.

"A few weeks later, they put me in the mines."

Rosie was quiet. Neither of them had touched their food.

Thomas flipped out another cigarette and offered one to her, then lit both. As he put out the match, he asked, "Why did you say yes, Rosie?" They made eye contact.

Rosie was quiet for a long while. Then, when it almost seemed she wouldn't respond, she said, "The same reason you told me about Patrick."

Thomas leaned forward, refilling his whiskey. "And what reason do you think that is?" he said, his ice-blue eyes somehow both so intense and so relaxed at once.

"Do you want me to say it out loud? The moment I say it, you'll scoff. Laugh and pretend it isn't true," she said, her eyes fleeting away. "Bloody 'ell, it sounds ridiculous." She looked down at her cigarette and flicked the ashes.

"Tell me."

Rosie paused. Then said, "You're lonely. And so am I." Her voice was quiet, but firm. "And not the sort of lonely that you can solve with sharing your bed or with drinking or—," she stopped.

"You're not a man who shares war stories for fun, Thomas Shelby. And I'm not a woman who goes on dates with gangsters for a cheap thrill."

Time passed and they were still talking. To describe their conversation as a dance would make it sound poetic, coordinated, romantic. It was not those things. But to describe it as such would not be wholly inaccurate. It was a back-and-forth. A test of each other in skill, in patience, in desire. They were in the dark and their conversation was their way of fumbling through it. She would share a story, a joke, a long tale from her past. And he would listen, smoking and drinking until she stopped. He looked happy, content, from across the table. His mouth was turned into a smile, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim lit.

Many men look stuffed into their suits, belted and strapped in, uncomfortable with the fit of their collars. But Thomas Shelby wore his suit like he was born in it. She thought to herself, it is hard to imagine him looking out of place in anything.

At some point, the waiters had taken their uneaten meals and replaced their bottles. She'd taken off her gloves. The band had stopped playing. But Rosie couldn't remember when.

"Have you ever been to America?" She asked, feeling sleepy from all the whiskey.

"Only once."

"And what did you think? Did it make you miss home?"

Without answering, he stood abruptly.

"A dance?" Tommy offered his hand.

"Here? Now?" She stood in response. There was no music, and the room was small.

"We don't need music."

She took his hand. Tommy moved her close and brought his other hand to her lower. Out of habit, Rosie laid her head in the space between his neck and shoulder. She was so close she could hear the slow thump of his heart.

They began dancing, a slow waltz. Rosie could hear his low breaths. Without realizing, she was humming to a tune she liked.

"Do you dance often, Tommy?" She asked in half-whisper, half hum.

"I can't say I do," he replied softly.

He slowly reached his arm out for her to turn and she followed his lead, her skirt swirling around her ankles. They came back in two steps, dancing slower and slower. Rosie sighed and found herself looking up at him, his eyes. They were looking back at her intently, with gentleness. Gentleness was never a trait she thought could be assigned to Thomas Shelby. But yet…why not? Why couldn't there be this side to him? It was here, right now, brought out in front of her.

"What are you humming?" He asked, low and even. A whisper in her ear.

"I'm not sure—my grandmother used to sing it. It's…about a bird, I think."

They drew closer and closer, her face barely an inch from his. She could smell his dark cologne, fresh and sharp. He smelled like midnight, like the crisp air from the countryside of her childhood. Rosie found herself closing her eyes. She wanted to melt in this, in this smell and feeling.

Her eyes fluttered, so close to his face. His jaw was square, covered in dark stubble. She didn't even think; she brought her hand to his face, caressed it slowly. He closed his eyes at her touch, breathing slowly.

Their mouths touched and moved against each other, their breaths slowing as they kissed.

She felt the coarseness of his stubble, the sharp angle of his face. They were pressed against each other, no space left to consider. His arm snaked around her, holding her against him.

After a moment, Rosie smiled and sighed softly, moving her face away just a bit to look at him. His eyes looked soft and sleepy, so close to hers.

"Tommy…" she whispered.

He brought her back and his mouth met hers again. She felt light, like she'd just floated up a few feet. Or maybe that was just the whiskey.

They pulled apart and she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

"I've had a lovely ti—," she began to say.

"Come with me," he whispered. An offer to stay the night.

"Oh no, Tommy," she smiled up at him. "Not tonight." She kissed his cheek. "You don't get to see what Rosie Walls's designer lingerie looks like just yet."


	2. Rumor

**Sorry for the long wait, but thank you for the kind comments and encouragement. I'm a very slow writer, but at least here's some more!**

* * *

Soft hums and golden light reverberated around the room. Rosie felt stiff, like she had been standing for hours. She looked down and saw her legs were small, like a child's. She wore that Sunday dress, the one with white hosiery and her little pink shoes. Confused, she looked up to find a face smiling down at her. Her mother. She moving her hand slowly to brush a bit of hair out of her face. Dreamily, Rosie turned. Next to her on the pew was Richie, clad in his Sunday best, his black hair combed back with slick gel.

"Sister," he demanded, louder than one should be in church, "why are you crying?"

Rosie furrowed her eyebrows. _Was_ she crying? Why was he angry?

She touched a hand to her face, but it felt like she couldn't move. The stiffness became overwhelming, and turned into paralyzing shock.

She attempted to open her mouth, to looking back at her mum, to do anything, but she couldn't will her body to be unfrozen.

* * *

Rosie awoke from her bed, eyes slowly blinking at the ceiling. Martha had pulled the drapes back, letting the pinkish morning light in. _It must be just after dawn,_ she thought to herself. The memory of her dream—nightmare, rather—was still lingering. She brought her hand up to her face, moving the fingers ever so slightly, as if convincing herself she was still, in fact, mobile. _What a silly thing_ , she thought. It had been years since she'd had a nightmare. Years more since she'd had one that involved her mother.

She closed her eyes, as if the very thought was a physical pang in her body. However strange the dream had turned, it had been almost calming to see her mother again in some form.

She rustled away from her blankets, lazily sitting up and rubbing her face awake.

There was something else, wasn't there? Something else in the back of her mind. She sat there for a moment, wondering what she forgot.

And then the thought of last night hit her. She closed her eyes again, remembering the slow dance with Tommy. _Tommy_. She was calling him Tommy. Something in her stomach lurched, but whether it was regret or excitement or nerves, she couldn't tell. What kind of spell was she under? How had this happened in just one night? It was utterly unnatural for her.

She rose from bed after a moment of quiet recollection, and prepared for the day by powdering her face and tying her curls up in a messy updo. Rosie forced herself to not think about the night before, and to instead focus on the tasks she had for today. There was paperwork, letters to write, calls to make. Rosie needed to make sure her managers were on task to begin shipments to America. They needed to inform their investors, contact their associates in Boston to begin drawing up the manifests…

Her mind drifted. Nothing her job presented could be as interesting as Thomas Shelby. Her thoughts kept reverting back to that night, back to that sleepy, calm gaze on his face after they'd kissed— _kissed_! She felt her stomach lurch. Every memory from last night drizzled in, made foggy and unclear by the alcohol.

She had never done this before, never wrung her mind out for each little drop of memory over a night spent out. She felt seventeen again, crushing on soldiers and businessmen and criminals.

And Thomas Shelby was all three. And somehow unlike any she'd met so far. Perhaps she needn't be surprised.

She wondered why he had told her about Patrick. She had said it was loneliness, but was that truly what had prompted him? Was it her eyes, as Tommy said they looked like his? Did she truly remind him of his old friend? He had jumped into his story, like the words themselves were a ledge—perhaps he'd never told it. Perhaps he had been aching to. Perhaps he felt she was some sort of confidante.

 _I could be that,_ she thought. _I could be a confidante for Thomas Shelby. Maybe he could be mine._

Rosie wanted to slap herself, she felt so silly. A silly woman hoping to steal a hard man's gaze for more than a night. Yet she believed, in a place more concrete than whims, that her desire wasn't unfounded. The question was whether she should have this desire at all.

As she went through the motions of her work, Rosie noticed Martha shuffling around the house, glancing in her direction not so often. The old maid had undoubtedly been snooping to find out who her suitor was—and she may have even sorted it out by now. Martha's gossip network of old hens like herself combined with all those had seen her on Thomas Shelby's arm meant her connections with the Shelbys would be on everyone's tongue soon enough. This was the true danger of being seen with Mr. Shelby. Their illicit business connections would be an easy guess.

Their name would soon be tied up. And that could prove fatal. If the Shelby's were caught in something else—in any number of their other rumored dealings…

But surely Thomas would know that. He seemed the sort of man to be prepared. _Besides_ , she thought, _not all rumors are true._

The Blinders would soon begin the careful process of adding the contraband to her lingerie shipments. She had no doubt she would be impressed with their professionalism; the Blinders' were known to be quick and clean, used to operating under the noses of patrolmen and dock workers. They were likely better at polishing off the details than either she or her brothers could be.

While Edward, the eldest, owned the company in name, she was its true boss. Edward had been destroyed in the war, mind and soul. And when he was finally discharged, he came home to four children with no mother. Rosie offered to take them, help him raise the little ones—but he refused. He knew just as well as she that she would resent that kind of life. So he left, rented a home in Reading and hired a nanny until—or if—he could find a wife. She hadn't seen him in years, though not for lack of trying. They tried to write, but Edward struggled to respond consistently. On the whole, he left the business for hers to run. Her father would've protested it, of course. They all knew how Father would have felt about Rosie being in charge, no matter how unofficial her capacity.

And Richard, almost five years younger, would rather spend his days on whiskey and snow and whores. A true measure of whether a potential partner had done appropriate research on Walls Family Incorporated was if they contacted her brother for a meeting instead of her. Many men disliked doing business with women—but those very men disliked doing business with Richard more.

When she'd first begun her work while Edward was off in France, Rosie chose to follow her father's legacy and never stray too far from the hard line of the law. It was only Richard—having recently quit university-who was aspiring to stretch the linings of his pockets, who had wanted more, who had decided to push the legality of their business. She spent weeks arguing with him, begging him not to jeopardize the family name. And Richard—the bloody fool—didn't listen. Rosie may run things in practice, but Richard could override her with a simple signature on the right paper.

And now they were smuggling for Thomas Shelby. Of the Peaky fucking Blinders. Was this how her empire would begin? And would its end involve her wrists in cuffs? Why had she said yes?

She was in a knot of all sorts. And the worst part was she _liked_ it. She chose to accept his business, hadn't she? And she itched for his calls.

But whatever regrets she had, she couldn't entertain them now. The Shelbys knew what they were doing. She would trust in them, for now.

* * *

That morning, her first order of business was to call her brother. The plans could go into motion without his awareness, but it was better to inform him of a few choice details. If she played it right, he'd could be satiated with just a few lies. First, she needed to explain the Boston movement. He couldn't be surprised over shipments being sent across seas. Then, she would need to give a reason to rid several of their employees. Really, this was an action long overdue. The ammunition had been going on under a few of the overseers' noses, and it wouldn't be long before they would have to start shilling out extra coin to buy their silence as well. The Blinders needed to come in and prepare the shipments themselves, alongside with more of the Roys' men. Did it make her a tinge worried to fire their employees? Good men, who'd worked for them for years? Who needed to provide bread for their children?

 _Don't be ridiculous,_ Rosie thought. _We'll give them a severance pay. They'll find new work. We could even offer to transfer them to other plants outside Birmingham. It needs to happen for this operation to work._

She dialed her brother.

"Richard," she said, forgoing a 'hello.'

"Rosaline." He stated, "Why've you called?" He sounded hungover. Or perhaps still drunk. Either way, she needed him to shake the grogginess out.

"How long would it take for you to meet me at the museum in Birm?" She asked.

"Birm? You want me to come all the way back to Birm?"

"Yes," she replied sternly. "How long?"

"God, I don't know" He said. There was a pause. "Noon, I'd guess. Why are you insisting on a museum?"

"I need to meet with you," she replied.

He grunted, a typical noise for Richard. Finally he said, "Fine."

"I'll meet you at noon, Richard," she sighed and hung up the phone.

* * *

The museum in Birmingham was half-finished with its west wing being refitted entirely. The other half was still open to the public, however, and that side was were Rosie stood, on the steps waiting for her brother to arrive.

She'd chosen this location for more than one reason. First, it provided a neutral ground. Rosie did not want to have this discussion in her home, or in the offices or anywhere that reminded Richard of her authority over the business. Second, the museum's art reminded her of her mother's paintings. If anything, perhaps that would be enough to give her a sense of courage. Facing off with her brother never left her feeling particularly strong.

Unfortunately, this sort of conversation would have to be in person. She was half tempted to leave it over the telephone—it would certainly be quicker. But having it in person showed Richard that their new business prospects were a serious step. While she didn't want to disclose _everything_ , it was a rather serious matter.

Richard finally drove up, parking sloppily near the front. He marched up the steps, clad in a black coat and wrinkled vest. It was clear he hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Richard," she said, giving a weak smile.

"I'm here, Rosie. Why did you bring me out here?" He said, eyes squinting in the bright overcast sky.

"Let's go in first," she said, leaving him on the steps to go inside.

The pink halls were vast and vaulted, and showcased several sculptures, positioned in little coves in the walls.

Rosie paused in front of a statue of a woman in a veil. She spoke quietly.

"I want to speak with you about the shipments," she said. Before Richard could protest, she said, "No, I'm not here to argue about it."

"Then why did you ask me here?" Richard whispered, annoyed.

"I'm expanding our exports to Boston," she declared, her voice sounding more bored than anything else. "I have contacts in America. You remember Mr. Golding, right? He says my products could very well do even better over there," she said.

Richard grunted, taking out a cigar and lighting it. "Very well. What else?"

Rosie knew he wouldn't be overly concerned with her business. The very idea of her lingerie line was uncomfortable for the bastard. He saw it as a frilly, womanly joke. Good. The less he cared about the contents of their shipments, the better.

"We have some concerns. About Rovksy."

Richard frowned. Rovsky was the head manager of the Small Heath plant, one of their long-time employees. He'd been around during their father's time.

"Why?"

She had prepared for this. "He was causing issues with some of the employees. Red mongering, you see."

"Ah, a commie." His face finally broke out of its stony, defensive guard and he chuckled a little. "Can't say I'm surprised with him."

"And he's not the only one. The very fact that the Small Heath factory has such a presence could provide complications," she said.

Richard exhaled smoke and looked at her expectantly. _Of course I would have to explain,_ she thought drolly.

"Firstly, they might demonstrate. Higher wages, unionize...," she drifted off, stepping from sculpture to sculpture with Richard following slowly. Her brown pumps clicked on the floor softly with each step.

"Secondly, Rovsky and his ilk might attract attention. At best, they're arrested and we're left squat with half the factory absent. At worst…,"

"They suspect we're in on it, as well," Richard finished. _Good._ He was paying attention to the important part. But even better, he was buying it.

"A horrible outcome," Rosie said, nodding as if he was the first to think of the idea.

"So we oust him and his men. I presume you already have a list?" He said, eyeing one of the sculptures.

"Yes. I can get it done within a week. We'll have to hire new men but-,"

Richard waved his hand, signaling he didn't want to hear. "I'm sure you'll have it done soon. Now, is this all?"

Rosie nodded, pulling out her own cigarette and lighting it. "That's all. I only wanted to confirm with you before we began."

Richard sighed. "Why couldn't you have simply told me over the telephone?"

"Is it so unlikely that I'd want to see my brother now and then?" To Edward, the question wouldn't have felt so forced. But to Richard, it felt like declaring she could fly.

Richard narrowed his eyes, confused. "Don't lie to me," he stated, his voice low.

"I'm not, Richard," she replied, giving a gentle smile. She wasn't the best liar, but she knew her brother well. "I simply thought it would be good for both of us to meet in person. Get some fresh air. Taste a bit of the arts," she gestured halls.

"Right," he sniffed, his tone unbelieving. "You never were the best liar, Rosie. When were you going to tell me about Shelby?"

"What?" Rosie asked, her voice squeaking a little. His question had struck her entirely off guard. Was he sitting on this information the entire time?

"I was meeting some mates a bit south of 'ere," He started, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. "We was having a nice night. And then I heard some news. My mate says to me, 'When'd your sister go into business with the Shelby's, eh?' Fookin' gypsy bastards. And he tells me the rumors of you 'n Shelby, meeting at a pub a few nights ago. Were you even going to tell me about that, Rosie?"

"I-," Rosie felt at a loss. "Who I see has little effect on you, Richard."

It was the wrong thing to say. His temper ignited.

"Bloody 'ell, Rosie, the fuck do you mean? _Of course_ it has an effect on me. You going 'round, fucking criminals doesn't-,"

She shushed him. He was starting to raise his voice.

" _Criminals?_ Don't you forget. We aren't exactly in the best light of the law either."

Richard's brow furrowed. "We aren't 'alf the trouble Shelby is. You've heard the things I have, I know you have. He's a madman-his men cut up their enemies' faces in broad daylight. They steal gun shipments from the fookin' _military_! An-and they're now fighting with the Italians, in case you 'aven't heard! What business do you got running around with Thomas fookin' Shelby?" He demanded, his chubby face red and blotchy.

"This isn't your business, Richard." Rosie's voice felt calmer than the rest of her.

"Bloody 'ell it isn't!" His voice rose again. Rosie looked over her shoulder and saw the other museum patrons starting to look over, curious at the heated argument. Her own face reddened.

"I wouldn't have thought you, of all people, would get into bed with that fookin' gypsy," he spat.

"Don't call him that!" she fired back, her voice raising slightly to match his. "Don't call him that," she said quieter, glowering.

Richard blinked. He almost look like he was about to say something, but Rosie cut him off.

"I run this company." Her voice was so low, it was almost a whisper. "I manage everything from its finances to its reputation. You don't." She raised her head, forcing herself to look into his eyes. His sunken, hazed eyes.

Richard stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth to say something again, then just shook his head and scoffed, a harsh sound. "You've really got your head up your own arse, don't you? You think you're the center of the company? If you get caught up in _their_ business, you'll end up bein' run by Thomas Shelby. You can't be careful enough to avoid it—and I'll be damned before I make deals with that fookin' Brummie gang. You'll see Thomas no more," he said, his voice dripping with anger.

"You can't tell me—,"

"No more." With that, he brushed past her and began to walk away.

"It was me who took over when Ed was off at war. _I_ took over when he came back, broken," her voice cracked ever so slightly on that last word. "I have the right to choose who I see. I deserve it!" she declared, her voice chasing after him.

He ignored her and kept walking. _How could he? How could he demand her to do anything? He was his father, believing his manhood was enough to force her to behave._

Rosie interrupted her own thoughts. She was still in the museum, and the other patrons were eyeing her. She looked around once or twice before readjusting her posture, holding her head higher and leaving the way she came.

* * *

It wasn't until Rosie got home that she let the weight in her chest bubble up. She felt coated in her anger. She had Martha draw a bath so she could soak in the scorching water, letting her skin redden and wrinkle, taking long shots of brandy.

She hummed for a long while. Humming turned to singing. Her voice had never been very strong but she could carry enough of a tune. She sang until the water started to cool and Martha knocked to ask about supper.

Richard had always been the more irrational of the three Walls children. Edward, ever the older brother, had a sense of calm and reason to him. He was the father's favorite, both for his disposition and his being firstborn.

Meanwhile, their father always thought Rosie was too headstrong for a woman. _She needs to learn her place_ , he would declare to her mother, as if her mother could magically make it so. But their father was right in that she was stubborn, proud, confident. Her indelicate nature often lent herself to impulse, but that was something she had tried to restrain over the years. _Though recent events could say otherwise,_ she thought dryly.

But Richard? Richard, the youngest, the baby. Their mother always doted on him, adored him. His temper was always foul, and he was the least interested in his studies. He bullied smaller children outside of school, ran his mouth at his teachers. If his father had been alive when the war had started, he would have gone mad that Richard was too young to enlist—he always said the boy needed something to shake discipline into his bones.

She and her father never agreed on much. But sometimes Rosie too wished Richard had been the one to have gone to war, not Edward. Edward, their sweetest brother, tortured by what he saw in France.

Not unlike Thomas, she thought suddenly. She remembered his story. She wondered if Edward had stories like that. She was sure he did, but Edward would never speak of the war. And she would never ask.

After some time, Rosie pulled herself from the bath and dressed herself. There was simply no question whether she would listen to Richard or not. She'd made up her mind the moment he revealed he'd known about Thomas. He didn't control her or own her. No man would. If she wanted to pursue Thomas, she bloody well would.

After all, what could he do? Everything was in Edward's name, and Edward would never force her to step down. Richard had few contacts of his own. Rosie had built everything the company had done in recent years. The power lay with her.

But some small voice told her it wasn't that simple. Richard could overrule her. Hadn't he already, with the shipments?

Rosie could feel her stomach twist every time she thought it over. His face, red and puffed up, demanding she not see Thomas again. Presuming they were sleeping together; that it even mattered.

How did he even know? How had his friend even known? Were the news of Thomas and her truly spreading that quickly? What sort of rumors and bawdy tales were people saying? Why did they care? Why was it so scandalous?

All these questions ran through her head, but she knew the answer. This was Thomas Shelby. He was infamous in Birm, she knew that and had seen that with her own eyes. And had she forgotten the way the patrons at the club had eyed her? She was new to them, new and _on Thomas Shelby's arm_.

It occurred to Rosie that she didn't actually know whether Thomas Shelby was known for womanizing. She tried to wrack her brain for the various things she'd heard about him or his habits. But she couldn't think of anything-besides, even if she could, could she trust it? Rumors and more rumors. She needed truth.

Her mind was so full of these thoughts, she felt ill and foggy. Rosie wanted to sock something-preferably Richard, maybe punch that contempt right out of his bloody face.

She could practically hear her mother tsking, softly warning her. "Violence does not fit a lady," she would have said. "Men brawl. We aim for better solutions." Rosie could hear her say it so well, she almost wondered if she were recalling an actual memory.

 _Fuck solutions,_ she thought irrationally _. Fuck propriety._ She resolved to violate all of it, to shake her mother's voice out of her head. To ignore Richard.

But something he said was gnawing at her insides. " _If you get caught up in their business, you'll end up bein' run by Thomas Shelby."_

What if Thomas had only asked her for a dance so he could gain leverage? So he could soften her will and blind her to his faults?

What if Richard knew something she didn't?


End file.
